Foolish
by Jakia
Summary: DA2 Spoilers.  The three years Varric didn't tell Cassandra about.  f!Hawke/Anders, Fenris/Isabela, Cullen/f!Amell.  Better summary inside.
1. What Isn't Said

**Title**: Foolish  
**Chapter**: 1/10  
**Author**: Jakia  
**Word Count**: 2081  
**Summary**: DA2 spoilers. The three years Varric didn't tell Cassandra about. Better summary under the cut. f!Hawke/Anders, Isabela/Fenris.

**A/N**: A great many thanks to rose_in_shadows for beta'ing for me! I really appreciate it!

**Better Summary:** Hawke is pregnant with Anders's child post DA2, and must deal with the consequences. Isabela and Fenris experience their first _feelings_, together. Aveline just wants a little stability in her life-is that so much to ask? First Enchanter Warden Commander Hero of Ferelden Amell is suicidal. Cullen wonders where his true loyalty lies: to Amell, who he loves, or to the recently rebelling Templars. Zevran is doing assassin-y things while trying to take care of his wife and kids. Merrill is still obsessed with the mirror. The Chantry is going to hell in a handbasket, and Orlais is threatening war with Ferelden.

* * *

**Chapter 1: What Isn't Said **

The Champion of Kirkwall was just a little bit selfish, and more than a little bit foolish. Despite what Anders had done, despite how so _very_ angry she was with him at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to kill him. He deserved it, of course. He had killed countless others, had-more importantly-betrayed her trust. But Maker take her, she loved that bastard, and to have killed him right then would have been like cutting out her own heart and handing it to Meredith on a silver platter, and she couldn't _do_ that. No matter how angry she was.

And so she supported the mages because she had to. Because if she didn't, she was letting her father down. Letting Bethany down. Letting _Anders_ down, and she didn't know which of those three was worse. So she fought Meredith with all she had, watched as that crazy bitch got twiddled down piece by piece, betrayed by everyone—by the Knight-Captain, by the Order, by Orsino—until there was nothing left of the woman but a shell that still had one of Hawke's daggers stuck inside of it. And then she ran, because the Knight Capt—because _Cullen _had mouthed at her to get out of Kirkwall, and because the man had stuck himself between her and that mad Templar woman she trusted him and _ran_. She ran, and she ran, and she ran until she simply could not run anymore and collapsed three feet away from Isabela's newly stolen ship.

It was the Antivan man who caught her before her head hit the ground, the elven Crow who Isabela knew. "Rest easy, _senorita_. You are safe now, and among friends."

"Maker's blood, she's _hurt._ Get her on the ship, now." And then she felt Bethany's hand curled around her own, her beautiful face smiling down at her. "Don't worry, sister. We'll make it. It's going to be okay."

The Antivan set her down, and she felt the warm familiar glow of the healing magic before she really sees it, and she knows then that Anders is on the blasted ship.

_I don't want to see you-_she tries to say, but when she opens her mouth blood comes out and she can't say anything at all. _I don't want you here. I hate you. I hate you._

But he doesn't say anything in response to her bloody gurgling—instead, he just pours more and more magic into her, hoping to piece her back together again.

_How could you do this to me?_ She thinks right before she closes her eyes for the last time, and it's like he hears her because he kisses her softly and whispers _I'm so sorry, _and it's the last thing she remembers before falling asleep.

* * *

She wakes up to the smell of salt on the sea and the gentle rocking motion of the ship around her.

Anders is asleep beside her, one arm wrapped protectively around her stomach, with more of his hair out around his face than in the tiny stub of a ponytail that remained. If it were any other day in their lives together, she would lean over and kiss him, pushing the hair out of his face and smiling at him gently.

Not today, though. She can barely move as it is, her body wrought with fatigue and lingering soreness from her injuries. She's so tired, though, that all she really wants to do is go back to sleep.

She frowns. She shouldn't be this worn out. She wasn't _that_ hurt. She's fought worse enemies than Meredith, certainly, and has walked away with fewer scratches. What was _wrong_ with her?

But Anders is awake now—he's always been far too light of a sleeper, and pulls her closer, with his arms cradling her stomach like it was the most precious thing in the world to him. It probably was.

"Why didn't you _tell me?_" He asks, sounding more hurt and betrayed than he had any right to, fondling her stomach like he can feel the child within her stirring.

She swallows the air around her. He healed her. Of course he realized what was wrong. He put her body back together with his own hands-he would have noticed her extra companion.

_Well, you know, I didn't realize you were planning on blowing up the Chantry. Guess we're both screwed, huh?_ But the scathing thoughts taste bitter even in her mind, so she doesn't say them.

"Congratulations," she says instead, and it _still_ sounds bitter, even though it wasn't planned that way. "You're going to be a father."

His body practically melts around her, his head lowering down to kiss her stomach with reverence. She thinks about pushing him off of her, of telling him to never touch her ever again, but the feel of his lips against her naked flesh feels good, and so she doesn't.

She does, however, push him back softly once the kiss is done. "Why didn't you tell me you were planning on blowing the Chantry?"

He snorts at her, but doesn't look her in the eyes, still focused on her mostly flat stomach. "If I had known you were _pregnant_, I wouldn't have done it in the first place."

She shoves him hard then, makes him look her in the eyes. "Don't try to blame this on me. You _knew_. You knew what you were doing, and you didn't tell me! Why? I trusted you, Anders! I _loved_ you, and then you—you did _this_ and now I can barely stand to look at you."

He looks at her closely then, brown eyes locked with steel grey. "Why didn't you kill me, then, when you had the chance?"

_Because I love you, you bastard._

_Because it's in bad taste to kill the father of your child. _

_Because I'm scared of being alone._

But she doesn't say any of these things, and instead she kisses him, hard, like if she kisses him hard enough then the pain and the anguish and the _hurt_ will simply melt away, skin against skin, like the taste of salt in the sea, merged together so you don't know where one part begins and the other part ends.

* * *

Isabela, Fenris admits begrudgingly, runs a mighty fine ship.

She looks more at home here than he's ever seen her in Kirkwall, her hair loose and blowing with the breeze, little droplets of the sea sprayed across her bronzed skin. She's leaning against the captain's wheel, admiring it tastefully, getting used to the feel of it under her hands once again, all confidence and none of it bravado.

She looks at peace, and, quite frankly, sexier than he's ever seen her, even when she was naked in his bed a few weeks ago.

The thought sends shivers down his spine.

She turns and looks at him, a warm smile on her face. "So, how are the lovebirds doing this morning? Still fighting?"

He scowls only partially out of embarrassment. "Making up, if the noises I heard were any indication."

"Mmm. Good for them." And she turns back to the one thing she loves, and he cannot help but watch her, envying her for knowing just where she belongs in this world that doesn't make any sense.

"Where are we headed?"

She shrugs, the wind in her hair and salt on her skin. "Antiva, where we can get all the wine and sin we can handle. And from there? It'll depend on what Hawke has to say."

He frowns at her, thoughts rushing by him as quick as the breeze. "Why are you listening to Hawke? It's your ship. You could go wherever you want to. You're free."

And then she breathes in that sweet ocean air and smiles at him. "I _am_ free, aren't I? It's a nice feeling, being free. Haven't felt that in a while." And then she tugs at his arm, pulling him so close to her so that he can't help but wrap his arms around her, smelling the sweet scent of her perfume. "Has it ever occurred to you that I'm following Hawke because I _want_ to?"

"You want to?"

"Yes. She's my friend. I want her to be happy." She leans her head against his chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat. "And the company she keeps is rather nice, too, I suppose."

He raises an eyebrow. "You suppose?"

"Uh-huh." And then she turns and looks up at him, all coy and mischief, one of her hands finding its way to his needlessly complicated belt. "Are they green today?"

That earns her a little smile. "No. Guess again."

"Blue?"

Another tug. "No."

"Black?"

"No."

She gasps, throwing the belt clear off. "Are you wearing the red ones? Those are my _favorite._"

Then he kisses her, because she tastes like freedom and sunshine and the sea, and it's a taste he's beginning to love.

* * *

Aveline would be lying if she said she wasn't a little disappointed by this recent turn of events.

She was just starting to get used to Kirkwall. It was home, with a husband and a dog and a job she enjoyed, and yet here she was, running away again.

At least she managed to bring something with her this time, even if he is rather bruised and snoring right beside her.

Besides, managing a ship is sort of like managing the city guard, even if she would never admit that to Isabela ever. Given the sheer number of people that followed them out of Kirkwall, it really shouldn't be that much of a surprise. There's the usual suspects—Varric, Isabela, Fenris, Merrill, the bloody mabari—but there are additional members of their little party, too. There's Donnic, of course, but there's also Bethany and her Grey Warden companion, the dark haired archer who broods so much he could give Fenris a run for his money. There are unexpected allies, here, as well—the Antivan, for example, who came out of nowhere, but helped them fight Meredith all the same. And then there were the Templars—the good ones, the ones who rebelled against Meredith, like Keran and his lot. Add in the surviving mages and a few more members of the city guard, and it was like they brought half of Kirkwall with them.

And, of course, there was Anders.

How he knew which boat to get on, Aveline didn't know, but he was there, waiting for them when they ran, ready to heal the wounded and take care of those he could.

She wondered how Hawke would react, once she came about. She hadn't allowed him to fight alongside them, infuriated and disgusted by his actions. Which, Aveline had to admit, she could fully understand and support. She wasn't religious in the slightest sense, but the sight of Chantry, blow to smithereens…It was enough to make someone turn to the Maker and repent for one's sins.

Speaking of sin, the only one of their usual group not on board the ship with them was Sebastian, although that was hardly surprising given the recent events in their lives. Still, the threat he left them with…that he would hunt them down with all of Starkhaven's armies for as long as he lived, until Anders was dead by either his own hands or Hawke's…it chilled her blood just to think about it.

And for him to expect _Hawke_ to kill Anders was just absurd. Mind you, Aveline want to hurt the man just as much as anyone else, but Hawke loved Anders. The two were practically married in every manner except for Chantry law. For Sebastian to expect Hawke to kill the man she loved was cold hearted indeed.

Aveline suspects that they will be running for quite some time. Running from the Chantry, from the Templars, from Sebastian. It feels a lot like running from Ostagar—like they lost a battle they didn't even know they were fighting.

As Donnic rolls over and snores, she cannot help but smile, and thinks that maybe it will be better this time, and that this time they can run towards something permanent.

* * *

From the crow's nest, Zevran Arainai begins to craft a letter to one Iza Amell, Very Important, For Her Eyes Only, bearing his seal so that she would know who it was from.

He hopes it gets to her in time.

* * *

END CHAPTER


	2. Antiva City

**Foolish**

Chapter 2: Antiva City

* * *

Bethany isn't sure she's going to like Antiva. In fact, she's rather positive she's going to hate it, much like how she hates boats, ex-Templars, darkspawn, sunburns, and Isabela.

Three years is a long time, after all. She had forgotten how obnoxious her sister's friends were.

Of course, she's not eighteen anymore. No longer a frightened innocent little girl terrified of losing another sibling, or scared of spiders and the Deep Roads or seeing her brother die again every time she goes to sleep.

Now, she has much worse things to dream about. Now when she sleeps, she sees broodmothers and darkspawn every time she closes her eyes. It could be worse, she knows—if the Hero of Ferelden hadn't ended then Blight before she joined, she would have to have heard the archdemon whisper sweet nothings into her ears like the Commander does when she sleeps.

That doesn't mean she rests easy though, especially since she's on a boat, and doubly so since her sister has yet to leave her room. It's been _weeks_ since they left Kirkwall—Arielle should be up and about, _leading_ them, not wallowing in her self-made misery.

"Bad dreams?" She turns and sees Nathaniel walking up the deck to stand beside her, and she smiles. She likes Nathaniel. Of all the Wardens she has met in Amarathine, he's the one who really _understands._ They have a lot in common, and she enjoys talking with him. He has siblings, too, and lost a brother like she did. He didn't want to be a Warden, either, but he's come to peace with it.

The fact that he's _absolutely gorgeous_ helps, of course, but anyone with eyes could have told you that.

"The dreams _will_ go away," he promises, tenderly handing her a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, standing close enough for her to touch. "Give it time. It won't always be so bad."

She smiles at him softly. "You've been saying that for three years now, and it still hasn't changed a bit."

He shrugs and then leans against the rails of the ship, shoulder to shoulder with her. "Maybe you're just sensitive to it. Or maybe it's just a mage thing. Then again, it doesn't seem to affect Anders than much anymore."

She forgets, sometimes, that Anders was once something other than a terrorist and the man who ruined her sister's life, that he was once a Warden and a Fereldan and had a sense of humor.

"What was he like, back then?" she asks, partly curious, and partly because she simply likes to listen to the sound of Nathaniel's voice.

"He was fun. Obnoxious, but in a good way. You would have liked him a lot more back then, I think. He was a nice guy, always happy, always friendly…a joy to be around."

"Not the type to blow up the Chantry then, I take it?"

Nathaniel frowns. "No. Not that type at all. He…he's really changed."

She wraps herself around his arm, clinging for warmth but really, mostly just reaching for his touch. "You sound like you were close, once."

"We were lovers."

That's the thing she has always admired about Nathaniel—he's always honest, even when the truth hurts her. "Oh! Oh, I didn't realize you, uh—"

His face steams red. "I don't-I mean, I _did_ but I-" he pauses, as if searching for the perfect thing to say. "Anders was a special case."

And now it's her turn to blush just a bit. "So, you _do_ like girls, or are you-?"

"I like both sexes just fine, thank you."

Sexuality has never been her strong suit, and so she looks up at him, a little coy and a little confused. "Like Isabela, or…?"

"_Not_ like Isabela." he tells her, and then, peering around the ship as if to see whether merely talking about pirate queens would make them appear out of thin air. When he's sure she's not there, he leans down and whispers cheekily into her ear. "_I'm_ not a slut."

Together, they laugh in the quiet moonlight until her sides hurt and all she can feel is the Nathaniel's warm breath right beside her face.

He pulls away from her gently, straightening out his shirt, like he's a nobleman whose clothes can't be wrinkled, and she can't help but smile at him.

"What happened, then? Why did you two break up?"

Nathaniel snorts. "_He_ broke up with _me_."

"Why?"

"Because he wanted to leave Amarathine, and I didn't." He turns away from her and looks out at the sea, and it's so cold at night that she can see his breath.

(That's the thing she doesn't understand about the sea—how can it be so impossibly hot during the day but absolutely freezing once the sun goes down?)

"I was heartbroken. And angry. And I felt so stupid—I mean, I'm still watching over his _cat_, for the Maker's sake."

"His cat? You mean-" She asks, curious, because she's been in Amarathine for three years and has never seen Nathaniel take care of a cat, except for… "_Fredrick?_ _Fredrick_ is Ser Pounce-A-Lot?"

He blushes again, this time from sheer embarrassment. "I couldn't call him Ser Pounce-A-Lot. It was too ridiculous. So I gave him a new name." And he looks around conspiringly, and then whispers into her ear "Between the two of us, I think he prefers being called Fredrick."

She laughs then, loudly, because it's so _silly_, and yet, every time she's around Nathaniel all she seems able to is laugh and smile, two things she never thought were possible when she first joined the Wardens.

"Well," She asks him, a big grin on her face. "Are you still heartbroken? Do I need _another_ reason to set Anders on fire? Because I'll do it for yo-"

And he swoops down before she can stop him, capturing her lips with his own, her first ever _real_ kiss, the first kiss that counts.

"No," He whispers, his forehead resting against hers as he tries to catch his breath. "I'm not still heartbroken."

Then his kisses her again, softly this time, more like an echo than a kiss. "Sweet dreams, Bethany."

For the first time in three years, Bethany sleeps peacefully.

* * *

Antiva was really only good at producing two types of people: whores and assassins. Isabela has had relations with both, and she would really recommend the whores if you can only afford one of the two.

A part of her doesn't even want to go out on the shore, too happy to be back at sea to really care all that much about Antivan delights.

The fact that she's spent the past few days with Fenris tied up in her bed helps, of course, but still.

It's puzzling because she's never _not_ looked forward to a shore leave, especially not one that leads her to the naked shores of Antiva. She tries to convince herself that it's because she's been landlocked for so long now that even Antiva doesn't seem appealing, but really, all she can think about is Fenris, tied to her bedpost, wearing nothing but the lyrium markings engrained into his skin, tattoos that go _all_ the way down…

Mmmmmm. Why was she out of bed, again?

But then Hawke comes stumbling out from below deck, messy haired and a bit green in the face, and Isabela cannot help but smile. "Ah, so the Champion awakens at last! Rough night?"

Hawke doesn't say anything, but rushes past her and vomits over the railings.

Isabela frowns, more than a little concerned. "You can't be sea-sick, darling. The boat is docked." And then she looks over at the rest of the ship, enough to see people start to emerge from below. "Healer-boy not doing his job properly? Or is there a dead body somewhere beneath the hold that you haven't told me about yet?"

But Hawke merely snorts, pushing herself up back towards the living. "He's not dead, and he can't fix this."

"Sounds serious."

"Oh, _very_ serious." She leans over the railings again, spilling her guts out into the sea. "I thought morning sickness was only supposed to last during the mornings," Hawke complains, bitterly holding her stomach. "Not _all fucking day._"

Isabela freezes, mouth gaped open like a fish. "Hawke, are you…did you just sa-are you _pregnant?_"

Hawke winces. "Don't tell Bethany. At least not yet."

"Are you—I mean, are you _sure_ you're—I mean—"

"Yes, I'm sure. Yes, Anders knows. Yes, that _is_ the only reason I didn't gut him when he blew up the Chantry, and no, I don't have a clue what I'm going to do."

Isabela doesn't do this often, but she wraps her arms around Hawke, holding her friend closely in a tight, comforting hug. "I can keep the others away for a little while, if you'd like."

But Hawke merely shakes her head. "No—I have to—I have to tell them all _sometime_. Might as well be today, right?" She turns her head, facing the boat once more, looking less green and a little more cheery. "Bethany, you're with me today, alright?"

The brunette blinks up at her sister, confused. "But I was going to spend the day with Nathaniel and—"

"Poppycock. We haven't spent any time together in years. Let's go _shopping_, just you and me. No boys allowed."

The apostate-turned-Warden looks to her sister, looks to Nathaniel, and looks back at her sister. It takes seeing the Grey Warden chuckle before anything actually occurs.

"Go shopping with your sister," Nathaniel tells her, laughing gently. "I'll be fine. Besides, I've been to Antiva before. I doubt I'd be much fun to travel with."

With that prodding, Bethany hops forward bounding towards her sister and giggling. "You brought gold, didn't you? Oh, I hope you did, because I didn't, and I really want a new set of robes. I like the blue ones I have on, you see, but I feel like a _red_ set would really bring out my eyes and—"

And with that, the infamous Hawke sisters are gone, off into the sinful realm that is Antiva City. Isabela cannot help but laugh, even as half of her ship follows them out into the city-Varric, with his ever-aimed crossbow "just in case", follows the Hawkes particularly closely.

It's only until she and Zevran are the last people on deck that she turns to her old friend and smiles. "Well, how about it? Want to go to the whore houses and have a good time?"

Zevran smiles at her sadly. "Afraid not, dear friend."

"Why not? You've lost your taste for whores or something?"

"You _could_ say that." The assassin holds up his hand, showing off a small golden band that Isabela didn't notice before. "I'm a married man, now."

Isabela gasped. "_Traitor_," she said, sounding more hurt than she actually was. "How could you? Marriage just…_ugh._ You disgust me."

"I am _old_, my friend," the elf tries to explain. "It was time."

"Nonsense. The crow's feet add character." She pouted, crossing her arms like a spoiled child. "You are _never_ too old to have a little fun."

That earned her a small chuckle. "Oh, but I am, my dear. And you will be too, someday, if you are lucky."

"Nonsense. I will never grow old."

"I really don't recommend the alternative, if that's the case." He frowns just a little, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Isabela, the truth of the matter is that there comes a point in a person's life when all he really wants is stability. I am tired, and old. And what I really want is to go home, make love to my wife, spoil my children, and go to sleep. There is joy in such a life, in having a home and people who love you. You will not always be young and beautiful, and there will come a point where you want someone who appreciates more than just your physical charms."

Isabela found she didn't have much of an argument against that. "She must be something, then, to make you settle down."

"She is beautiful, and kind, and strong. She loves me despite my flaws." He smiles at her, as if remembering the color of his wife's hair or the look on her face when he left.

"What's her name?"

"Kallian. She is Queen Elissa's handmaiden and bodyguard."

"And the brats?"

"_Children_, Isabela. _My_ children. Adaia and Claudio."

Isabela just shook her head. "Andraste's heaving tits, but you've done it. You've actually gone soft. You've given up your freedom!"

He leans forward, kissing her gently on the forehead like he might a younger sister. "No, my dear Isabela. I _found_ my freedom. And I hope that you will find yours, someday."

And then he is gone, and she is alone on a ship with only the sea to keep her company.

* * *

If Donnic had been given a choice in the matter, he would _not_ have chosen to spend his first night in Antiva on a ship, playing Wicked Grace with Fenris, a sullen Grey Warden, and the man who blew up the Chantry. As it was, Isabela's orders had been clear (_don't you __**dare**__ leave my ship empty_) and he was not fool enough to disobey the pirate queen. Besides, Aveline had gone shopping with the girls, and as he wasn't into whores and not particularly keen on spending money he didn't have, staying on the ship with Fenris had seemed like a good idea at the time.

It had been quiet, and awkward, what with Anders sitting there and Not Talking, and Fenris sitting there and Not Talking, and Nathaniel drinking and Not Talking, and so Donnic didn't say a word but felt that maybe he ought to.

When the little Grey Warden girl, Bethany, came bursting into the hold, screaming at the top of her lungs, he abruptly realized he would have much rather have dealt with the silence.

"How _could_ you?" she screamed, jumping towards Anders, claws sharpened and ready to kill. "After all the sneaky, underhanded, _malicious_ things you have done—"

The blonde man paled. "I didn't—"

"You had to knock my sister up, too?"

"_Bethany_—"

"Like we don't have enough problems! What, was blowing up the Chantry and sending every Templar known to man after us wasn't enough for you? You had to bring an innocent _baby_ into this mess?"

Hawke grabbed her sister tightly, keeping her from clawing Anders's eyes out. "Scream it a little louder, why don't you? I think there were towns in Orlais that didn't hear you."

"Let go of me—you don't even-" Bethany screeches, trying to climb out of her sister's embrace.

"My niece or nephew is going to be hunted for the rest of their lives because of _you!_ They will _never_ have a normal life! Even if they aren't cursed with magic, they'll be hated just because of who their father is, because of what their father _did!_" She calms down just a bit, still huffing and openly crying mid-speech. "I _hate_ you."

"How do you think I feel?" Anders asks her seriously. "I'm the _father._ That niece or nephew you're talking about? That's my son or my daughter. Don't you think I know the timing of this is awful? I didn't _plan_ this. Neither of us did."

It's then when Fenris drops his hand of cards, revealing five aces and a pair of queen (_cheater!_) and looks up at Hawke, confused. "You—you are with child?"

The Champion bites her lip. "This…this wasn't how I wanted to tell everyone, but yes. I am with child."

"And Anders is the father?'

The Champion only nods.

Fenris sighs. "Would you like me to kill him for you?"

"What—no, I don't want you _or Bethany_ to kill him! I don't want anyone to kill him!"

That seems to be enough for the elf, who then turns his attention to the apostate. "Are you stupid? Why didn't you use protection?"

The sheer amount of color that rushes to the man's face is almost amusing in its own way. "I thought—well, aren't Grey Wardens sterile?"

The Champion of Kirkwall whips around and faces her sister. "You're _sterile?_ _That's_ what the Joining does to you?"

Before her sister can respond, however, Nathaniel chimes in. "That's not the full truth—we can still reproduce, it's just much less likely due to the Taint. Or would you like to tell me that King Alistair's children aren't his own? You should have known better, Anders."

The hull of the ship responds in an uproar after that, a wide variety of voices and opinions resounding within the ship's walls. Donnic cannot always tell who is talking, but he knows there are at least three more vocal threats on Anders's life and someone—Donnic suspects that it is Merrill—chimes in unhelpfully that she knows just the cure for something like this, and whisks away before anyone can stop her.

Donnic cannot help but sigh, putting her arms around Aveline and watching the ensuing battle of wit with more than just a passing interest. "Your friends are absolutely mad. You know that, right?"

Aveline turns and kisses his cheek. "I'm afraid it's going to get much worse from here on out, my love."

* * *

It's late—so late that it's almost morning, but Arielle Hawke doesn't want to sleep, and she doesn't want to get back on Isabela's ship, and she _really_ doesn't want to wander Antiva alone at night. So she sits on the docks, kicking her feet lightly across the water, watching the ripples they make.

"Congratulations, _signorina_."

It's the Antivan elf, Zevran. Hawke smiles at him, offers him a seat next to her on the docks. "You know, I've spent the entire day telling people I'm pregnant, and you're the first person to tell me that."

Zevran smiles and sits down next to her. "Despite what you may think now, this _is_ a gift. A child is a blessing. I remembered when my Kallian told me she was with child, our daughter Adaia. It was the happiest moment of my life."

Hawke looks at him, curious, a swift breeze blowing through her brown locks. "I didn't know you were married."

He chuckles softly. "You and most others. A lot of people assume that."

Hawke blushes. "I didn't mean anything by it—I just thought—you know, that you were more like Isabela, seeing as you two are such good friends and all."

That gets the elf to chuckle. "To be honest, I was a lot like our dear Isabela when I was younger. Not so much anymore, but, eh, people change. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What did you want to talk about, then?"

"What are your plans, after this? I assume you do not mean to stay in Antiva."

Hawke pulls her feet up onto the docks, resting her arms and her head on her knees. "I'm a fugitive. I don't have plans at the moment. Just…lay low, I guess. Keep out of trouble. Out of sight, out of mind."

"And your child?"

She places a small, worried hand on her stomach. "Try to keep him or her safe and happy for as long as possible? I don't know. I have never been a parent before."

Zevran nods. "I figured as much. Have you considered returning to Ferelden?"

Hawke blinks at the elf, surprised. "There are Templars in Ferelden too, you know."

"Yes, but you have a cousin there. A very powerful, influential cousin."

Hawke spits into the sea. "A cousin who I have never spoken to, one who probably doesn't even know my name. What can she do for me? What would she be _willing_ to do for me?"

Zevran laughs. "I do not know what she would be willing to do for you, only that it does not hurt to ask. She is First Enchanter there, you know. Not to mention a close friend of the King. Plus, King Alistair…well, he is a very reasonable man. Doesn't care much about pleasing the Chantry, and he's a sucker for a pretty woman. Particularly one with child."

"You sound as though you want me to sleep with him."

That earns her an even bigger chuckle. "Oh no, never that. He's far too loyal to the Queen for such a tryst. But he _is_ reasonable. He could probably offer you sanctuary, at least until your child is born. He's far from heartless."

Hawke remembers meeting King Alistair, a man interested in meeting a legend, who openly disagreed with Meredith and who looked upon mages with kindness. If anyone could help them—if anyone would be _willing_ to help them-he probably would.

She leans back and looks up at the stars over the Antivan harbor. "It's as good of an idea as any for right now. I'll let Isabela know in the morning, and we can start preparing for the task ahead."

It's been a long time since she was last in Ferelden. The last time she was there, her home was on fire and Carver had died. But she is Ferelden-born, and so is Anders, so maybe this is a good thing. Their baby will be born on the shores of its parent's' homeland, in a country that smells like mud and salted fish and dogs and _home_.

It's a good thought, and it's the one that finally puts her to sleep.

* * *

END CHAPTER

A/N: _Iza_ is the name of my Amell. It's Hebrew, and it means _salvation_.

_Arielle_ is Hawke's first name. It's also Hebrew, and means _lioness._

I guess I just wanted to pretend that the Amells were secretly Jewish or something.

Chapter three is much shorter (I think) and will be up sooner rather than later, if all goes according to plan.

jak


	3. In Between

**Foolish**

Chapter Three: In Between

* * *

_Ferelden, 9:37 Dragon_

He never actually expected to return to Fereldan soil, especially not for reasons such as this. He would be lying if he said Greagoir's death didn't upset him—the man had been like a _father_ to him-but he hadn't seen the man in six years, not since he stormed off in a rage and got on the first boat to Kirkwall, where he heard that they took mage hunting _seriously_.

Meredith had been pleased with his attitude, and he found himself promoted to Knight-Captain—a position that didn't even _exist_ in the Ferelden Circle—rather quickly. It was a while before he stopped seeing abominations and blood mages around every corner, and it was even longer before he realized just how _insane_ the current Knight-Commander was, but he had had a good thing in Kirkwall. He felt…saner, there. Like he had conquered his demons and moved on, that life was _good_.

That didn't mean he didn't he didn't miss Ferelden, or hadn't wanted to write Greagoir to apologize. But time had gotten away from him, and the next thing he knew his mentor was dead and Cullen had not been able to make amends, or to even say goodbye.

The fact that the man had left Cullen _everything_ was unexpected. He would have thought Greagoir hated him, or was at least disappointed by the fact that he left Ferelden. To have left him everything…

Granted, it wasn't much. Some land that Greagoir never used, inherited from Greagoir's own father. A pocket watch. A faded green ribbon. A collection of books, mostly on the Chant. Humble belongings that had belonged to a humble man.

It was the burning that was the hardest part. Watching his mentor go up in flames without being able to say goodbye…it tore him up inside.

"He loved you, you know." A familiar voice—one he thought he might never hear again—whispers at his side. It's Iza Amell, cloaked in funeral black with a handful of white lilies, standing beside him softly. _Maker take him._ "It was all he could talk about these past few months. He was proud of you, proud that you showed the mages in Kirkwall mercy."

He takes his eyes off the flames, looks Amell in the eyes. Time has not been particularly kind to either of them, it seems. "You were with him, then, when he…?"

She nods. "I'm First Enchanter now—the best healer the Circle has. I tried to heal him as best I could, but—there wasn't much I could do."

She squeezes his hand, and he blinks back tears. "I'm—I'm glad you were with him," he confesses, because the thought of Greagoir dying completely alone is just too much for him to bear. "I just wish I could have been."

She steps up on her tip toes, kissing his cheek lightly, like she's an old friend and not simply a girl he used to have a crush on. "I'll give you a few minutes to say goodbye, if you want. Come speak to me later. I'll be at the Tower."

* * *

It's late, so very late at night, and he doesn't have permission to be in the Tower, much less in the First Enchanter's quarters, but he doesn't care. That, arguably, is the worst thing. She's still wearing black, but robes this time, and he notices not for the first time that the years have not been kind to her. She's thin—skeletally so, to an unhealthy extent—and her hair no longer seems magically silver, but rather prematurely grey. She looks like she's dying from a disease worse than death, paler than any living thing ought to be.

But Maker take him, she's _still_ the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and that's when he knows he really is doomed.

He swallows the breath he's been holding and steps forward. "First Enchanter? You wanted to speak to me?"

She doesn't turn and face him, instead continues staring out of her window. "Come in, Cullen. Shut the door behind you."

He does as she asks, standing in front of her desk like a scolded child before a disappointed parent. It's silly, but he doesn't trust himself to speak in front of her, less he stutters like he did when he was young.

Eventually she sighs, turning half towards him, still partially gazing out the window. "I didn't want this job, you know. But the last thing Irving asked of me before he died was to look after his home, and I did not have the heart to tell him no."

He looks up at her, curious. "When did Irving die?"

"Two years ago. About a year after Wynne did." She finally turns away from the window, looking at him fully. "I was surprised Greagoir lasted as long as he did, to tell you the truth. I think he wanted to speak to you before he died, but his body couldn't hold out forever."

He winces, the thought of Greagoir lying there, dying, _waiting_…but Amell doesn't let him think about it for long.

"You look different."

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

She smiles at him, a little sad and a little quiet. "I always thought you were a ginger, but apparently you're a blond. Strawberry blond, but blond all the same. Your skin is so much darker, too. You look…healthy."

_You don't_. He wants to say, but doesn't. "The Gallows, in Kirkwall—you spend a lot of time outside." He explains half-heartedly, not really sure what she wants from him.

She leans forward, patting his head playfully. "You still have your curls, though. It's nice to see that some things never change, even with time."

She removes her hand, and he looks at her seriously. "How are _you_, Iza?" He asks, because this whole talking-in-circles and not making any sense just isn't _her_, and he more concerned than he ought to be.

"I'm dying," she says jokingly, a half smile on her face. "It's the Circle. It's _killing_ me."

He frowns. "That's not funny."

"I know. I've never been any good at jokes—that was Alistair's job, not mine." She turns away from him, walks back over to her window, placing her hand on the glass.

"I wanted to leave the Wardens, you know. I didn't want to be around death so much, and the Wardens, all they really do is die. Well, that and kill darkspawn, I suppose. I thought it would be easier, being back in the Circle." She frowns, looks down at the glass, making it freeze against her hand. "But in a lot of ways, it's worse. I'm all alone here. And I think too much."

He steps closer to her, close enough that he can smell her hair and still not touch her. "What do you think about?"

"Dying, mostly," she says honestly, writing her name in the frost on the glass. "Like if I jumped out this window right now, fell to my death, how long would it take them to notice, do you think? An hour, maybe? A whole afternoon? Maybe even a week?"

He grabs her wrist tightly, pulling her away from the glass. "You shouldn't think like that."

"You're right, I shouldn't." But she's still looking at the glass like it's the most fascinating thing in the whole Tower. "How is Kirkwall?"

What is _wrong_ with her? "Fine."

She quips her eyebrow. "Meet any interesting people?"

"I—yes. Your cousin, actually."

Iza smiles at him, and for a moment, looks like the girl he used to know. "You know, it's funny. I never knew I had a cousin. Never knew I had any family at all out there. If I hadn't become the Hero of Ferelden and she hadn't become the Champion of Kirkwall, we probably still wouldn't have known about each other." She leans back against her desk, half relaxed, at ease with the world. "What's she like?"

_She fell in love with an apostate, the one who blew up the Chantry. She helps the Templars and then she helps the mages. She's the most confusing woman I've ever met._ "She's…a lot like you, actually."

"Hmph. Prettier though, I bet."

He blushes. "I—I wouldn't say that."

She smiles at him widely. "That is because you are kind." She turns her attention to the fireplace, poking at the embers duly. "I was four when I went to the Tower. I don't think I even had a father. And my mother used to hit me when she caught me doing magic."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It isn't your fault." She turns to the window again like it contains her salvation. "If I jumped right now, do you think anyone would care? They'd mourn the Hero of Ferelden, sure, but after that?" She places her hand on the window, freezing it again so that the glass is fragile beneath her hands. "I should have died seven years ago against that blasted archdemon, but I didn't. I was scared. So damn _scared._ Scared enough to let Morrigan…" She trails off for a bit, doesn't finish her sentence, places both hands on the window so that all she would have to do would be to _push, _just a little bit, and the glass would crash and she would fall straight through. "Would they even notice I was gone? Or would they be so caught up in their politics and their religion and their lives that wouldn't care about me? Would they—"

He grabs her then, wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her back as far away from the window as he can. "_I_ would care," he whispers into her ear, shaking. His heart is heavy, hurting because he knows how true this is, knows how distraught he'd be if he lost her, too. "I would care, Iza."

She collapses into his arms, sobbing against his chest, the broken shell of a woman who slew dragons, once. "Will you stay with me? Will you make sure I don't jump? I-I don't want to jump, b-but if I'm _alone_ then I might and—"

He kisses her hair, holding her tightly. "I won't let you jump."

"P-promise?"

"I promise."

And then she kisses him, a kiss he's wanted for twelve years. It doesn't disappoint.

"Promise me you won't let me fall?" she whispers, her forehead leaned against his so that he can feel the hot tears running down her face onto his own.

It is the one promise he intends to keep. "I promise." He swears, sealed with a kiss.

He doesn't sleep that night. Or the next night. But Iza Amell stops looking out windows, and so he begins to count it as a small-earned victory.

* * *

END CHAPTER

A/N: An odd chapter, I know. I hope Iza wasn't *too* crazy, in that I hope she still made sense and you could sort of follow her thought pattern. Don't worry, we'll be back to Hawke + co next chapter.

Regards,

jak


	4. Home

**Foolish**

Chapter Four: Home

* * *

Justice does not approve of the child growing in Hawke's womb. Justice doesn't approve of a lot of things, like drinking or fun or sex, but this child has gotten the spirit (_demon_) completely confused.

Spirits don't reproduce, after all. The thought of creating a new being, one that is only partially yourself, is a wholly mortal concept.

What bothers Justice the most is _Anders's_ reaction to the growing child. The mage is obsessed with it, and there is never a moment he goes without thinking about it.

It's worse than that Hawke girl, really, because at least then Justice could intervene if needed. This…obsession, this _feeling_, this…Justice did not know what to call it, only that it is all-consuming, and it put everything they had created these past few years at risk. Justice cannot stop it, because for the first time in years Justice cannot influence Anders's thoughts.

_Kill it_, Justice whispers, in the dark of the night against the soft rocking of the ship. Anders's tucks his hand tighter around Arielle's stomach. _It's ruining everything we've worked for. You cannot hope to save the mages while this—__**thing**__—exists!_

But Justice's (_Vengeance's_) thoughts fall upon deaf ears, and Anders worries about the child ever more, as if he knows it's the one thing keeping Justice out of his head, a bubble protecting his thoughts.

"I will never hurt you, my darling," he promises Arielle's stomach, once his lover is sound asleep, speaking directly to the child within. "I can't guarantee you anything else—I can't promise you stability, or that I'll make a good father, or even that I'll be there for you. But I love you, and there is nothing in this world I love more than you and your mother. I will do _anything_ to protect you both."

Inside his head, Justice rages. It does him no good.

* * *

Hawke, while born of an Amell and therefore biologically noble in at least some sense, was raised a peasant and so was not raised to understand politics. Not really. She's good at pretending she does, though, and that's why the Viscount liked her so much-she thought differently than most of the nobles he had to deal with.

That doesn't mean she knows how to persuade a _king_, though, especially not about something as important as this.

She dresses nicely, though, wearing a beautiful green spring dress that shows off the slight baby bump that has appeared in the recent months. She does her hair up nicely, letting Bethany and Merrill curl her hair and make-up her face so that she looks respectable and _not_ like she's been sleeping in a pirate ship for months.

She can at least _look_ like a noblewoman, even if she really isn't.

It feels like she is waiting forever inside the palace before the servants usher her towards the gardens, where the king is waiting to speak with her.

The gardens are beautiful, but what really surprises her is to see the king of Ferelden sitting there, a full smile on his face and a small child on his lap.

"_Rose_," he kisses the girl, who can't be much older than three or four, right on the top of her head. "It's naptime, Princess."

The little girl shakes her head. "No! Wanna stay!"

"Say it right this time, Rosalind."

The little girl pouts, but then wraps her arms tightly around her father's neck. "I want to stay with _you_, Daddy."

Maker's breath, that's the _princess._

The King kisses her again, this time on her forehead. "But aren't you sleepy? I know I am."

"M'mn tired."

"_Rose,_" the King scolds gently.

"I'm not _tired_," the princess repeats, enunciating her letters properly.

"But you will be later, won't you? Then you'll be too tired to play with Adaia and Claudio. Duncan and Ellie will have to go by themselves because you'll be too sleepy to go."

"Nuh-uh!"

"_Rose."_

"No I won't!"

But the King grins, leans forward and whispers something Hawke can't hear into his daughter's ear. The girl's face lights up immediately. "You _promise?_"

He holds out his pinky for the little girl to take. "I promise."

The girl leaps from his lap, getting dirt and grass and who knows what else on her pretty little dress, grabbing the nanny's hand and rushing back towards the castle, seemingly eager to head towards her nap.

The King laughs, but stands up, brushing his clothes, and turns towards Hawke for the first time. "That's the thing you must understand about children, Champion. They _always_ respond well to bribery."

Hawke curtsies. "Your Majesty. It's good to see you again."

The King nods. "You as well, Champion. I suspect the last time we spoke neither of us could have predicted we'd speak again so soon. Please, have a seat."

She did as asked, sitting down in one of the garden chairs comfortably as the King of Ferelden poured her a cup of tea. "One scoop of sugar or two?"

"Two, please."

He smiles, adding in the second scoop. "That's how my wife takes her tea, too." He hands her the cup gently. "Be careful, it's hot."

She nods, but takes a sip anyway. The warm liquid feels good on her throat, even on a warm day like today.

"So what can I do for you today, Champion? I must admit, I'm…_interested_ in hearing your side of the story. Zevran's letter was rather sparse with the details, and the Prince of Starkhaven seems to believe that you are harboring murderers."

"I—you've spoke to Sebastian?"

That causes his eyebrow to rise slightly. "Through letter, mostly. He believed you would return to Ferelden after leaving Kirkwall."

Damn that man. "What—what else did he say, if I may ask?"

"Oh, the usual. That you're a harlot and a maleficar and if I cared anything at all about my immortal soul I would execute you on sight." The King smirks, taking a long sip of his own cup of tea. "Now, this may just be my opinion on the matter, but you don't seem like a harlot, and last I checked, you don't really seem mage-y enough to be a maleficar."

The smile on Hawke's face softens. "He's—he's not entirely _wrong_, your Majesty."

The King of Ferelden frowns. "Ah. Perhaps you should start at the beginning, then?"

It's remarkably easy to talk to the King—he's a good man, and an excellent listener. Moreover, he's friendly and acts genuinely interested in her plight, even the parts of it that don't exactly relate to Templars and Mages, religion and order.

"I can't protect you," the King tells her softly, once her story is done. "I wish I could. While I don't think what your—_friend_—did was right, I know that the Circle is an injustice, and that often times the Chantry can be more wrong than right.

"What I can do for you, however, is offer your friends a home. The people on your ship—"

"Not my ship," Hawke corrects him gently. "_Isabela's_ ship"

"—Are welcome to stay in Ferelden, and I will let them become Ferelden citizens, should they wish it. Your child, too, is an innocent in all of this—I will make sure the Chantry never gets a hold of 'em. But as for you and that Anders fellow, I just—I can't protect you. Ferelden is on shaky enough ground as it is with Oralis—if the Divine knew I willingly harbored the two of you…." He shakes his head, sadly. "Well, let's just say that I don't think Ferelden would be able survive, to be honest with you."

She nods slowly. Honestly, it's more than what she reasonably expected at this point. "Will you send the Templars after us?"

He shakes his head. "No. I won't tell anyone you're here, either. In fact…" He stops, looking over towards the evening sun (how long have they been out here, exactly?) "I may know of someone who _can_ help you."

Zevran already warned her about this. "Iza Amell."

"The Hero of Ferelden, yes." he nods, smiling at her fondly. "If there is anyone in this world who could help you, Iza would be your best bet."

"How can I get ahold of her?"

"She's at the Circle Tower—here, I'll write to her, let her know you are coming. I wouldn't recommend bringing quite a large group with you, however. Keep it simple. Back in my day, we traveled in fours."

She nods. "I understand. I—I, thank you, Your Majesty."

He shakes her hand as if she were his equal and not just a fugitive. "I wish you all the luck in the world, Champion. I think you're going to need it. May the Maker watch over you."

"Maker watch over you as well, Your Majesty." She bows to him, and then escapes unseen from the gardens, as if she were never there.

* * *

Isabela has been acting strange lately, and it's driving Fenris crazy.

One moment she wants nothing to do with him, acting cold and distant. The next minute she's all over him, like a sex-starved kitten eager for her next meal. Then at other times, she's oddly clingy and insecure, acting like she wants something more than sex out of him, like she wants a _relationship_ or something.

It's confusing and quite honestly, he's not sure what he should do about it.

"_Women_ are confusing." Donnic assures him, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

It's especially troubling since she's wandered off alone. Normally, he wouldn't think twice about that—Isabela is a big girl, she can handle herself—but she's been so distracted lately and he's…_concerned_.

That thought alone is troubling enough as it is.

There's nothing between the two of them, after all. They're friends, sort of. They like to have sex together. She likes to guess what color his smallclothes are and he appreciates how _free_ she is, both sexually and spiritually.

He does _not_ love her.

(At least, that is what he keeps trying to tell himself.)

If he follows her around Denerim like a lost puppy, it's because he doesn't want her to get hurt. He doesn't want a group of thugs to take notice of a charming young woman and decide to take advantage of her.

This is not done out of affection. Hawke would kill him if something happened to Isabela.

(At least, that is what he keeps trying to tell himself.)

It turns out his gut instinct is right, however, because soon enough Isabela finds herself surrounded by thugs, one of whom pulls out his sword and points it straight at Isabela's chest.

"Pirate _whore,_" he calls her, backing her up into the corner. "I remember you from the last time you was here, witch. You humiliated my men."

Isabela simply rolls her eyes. "You'll have to be more specific. I humiliate a lot of men."

"You bitch. I _will_ kill you—"

"There is a shortage of perfect breasts in this world," Fenris calls out, distracting the man whose sword is far-too-close to Isabela for Fenris to be comfortable. "It would be a shame to ruin hers."

It's just enough to give Isabela the advantage she needs, allowing her pull out her daggers and kill the man who would have killed her. They make short work of the thugs in quick succession.

Isabela wipes the blood off of her face before she smiles at him. "_Perfect breasts_, huh?"

He doesn't blush. "In my opinion. I could be wrong, though."

"Could you?"

He leans in closer to her, feeling her breath on his face. "I could be." His eyes never leave her. "I doubt it, though."

She kisses him, and he wonders how he got so lucky that killing thugs and kissing pirate queens and falling in love became normal.

* * *

Varric cannot stand the smell of wet dog.

It's everywhere in Ferelden—engrained into the very air itself-and he can't escape it. He tries the seedier of Denerim's taverns, thinking that the smell of sex and alcohol will override the smell of _dog_, but it's even worse than it is out in the open. The Gnawled Noble smells suspiciously like dead ogre, which makes it even harder to stand.

"Well, shave my back and call me an elf! Here I thought I knew every surface dwarf in Denerim!" A loud, walking dwarven stereotype pats Varric on the shoulder roughly, and the smell of stale alcohol and body odor hits Varric harder than most Templars. It's all he can do not to gag once the flame-headed dwarf takes a seat next to him. "Barkeep! An ale for my friend, here."

That's nice of him, even though, really, Varric could live without. "I—thank you."

"You looked queasy, so I thought ale might help yeah get your nerve up. You been on the surface long? Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough."

"I was _born_ on the surface." Varric explains, shaking his head in disgust. Hawke was _born_ here? In this savage country? _Really?_

"Eh? You looked kinda fancy, I just assumed you was visiting from Orzammar. Where you from, boy?"

"Kirkwall." _And I'm not a boy._

The dwarf took a deep swig of his ale. "That would be why you talk funny."

"I don't talk funny. You talk like your drunk, constantly."

The other dwarf laughed. "It's part of my charm. Name's Oghren. You might've heard of me?"

Oh. Oh, this was…? "Can't say that I have." Varric lies, smoothly.

"Really? You never heard of ol' Oghren? Grey Warden extraordinaire, companion of the Hero of Ferelden, helped defeat the Blight and all?"

"Nope," Varric lies, brushing off his fingernails. "Not a word. Must not be that important if _I_ haven't heard about it."

He knows the story, of course. He's _Varric_—he knows the story and at least twelve different variants, all invented by yours truly. But hearing the story of the Blight from someone who was there, a companion who followed the Hero, is worth standing the smell of wet dog and drunkenness.

Oghren glows. "Sit down, boy. Prepare to be educated."

Varric takes a sip of his ale and tries not to show how excited he really is.

* * *

END CHAPTER

A/N: One line comes from the Princess Bride. Try and find it if you can. ;)

Next chapter we will be returning to the Circle I do believe, so stay tuned.

jak


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